


To the Sea

by Roselightfairy



Series: Finding a Voice [8]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, At least three different instances of ugly crying, Bathing/Washing, Caretaker angst, Cuddling, Dramatic weight loss, Established Relationship, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, I tried to tone this story down and it said NO, M/M, Mental illness that is messy, Sea-longing, Suicidal Themes, angst angst angst, in little bits amidst all the ANGST, no romanticization here, starvation is not pretty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-29
Updated: 2018-05-29
Packaged: 2019-05-15 07:41:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14786288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roselightfairy/pseuds/Roselightfairy
Summary: A few decades into their shared lives, Legolas seems to be losing his battle against the sea-longing.  The only solution that he can think of is to go to the sea.Of course, Gimli will not let him go alone.





	To the Sea

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote near the end of _Home_ that I had been seized up by the angst monster, and I was not kidding. This story is one of the most upsetting things I've ever written, at least to me. You remember chapter 9 of _Building_? This story is that, cranked up to 11. There are suicidal themes, mentions of dramatic weight loss and loss of appetite, and interpersonal conflict. But, because I'm not diverging from canon here, it does not have an unhappy ending.
> 
> I'd seen other stories depict sea-longing as an almost physical illness before, and I guess I had to try it as well, but in this story it's more like a mental illness that becomes almost physical. It's inspired by many different things, but not based on any one thing in particular. It's also often described using archaic words that I don't agree with or use today, specifically "madness." I'm not in any way trying to denigrate or misrepresent existing mental illness in this story. It was just several thousand words of angst that really, really needed a place to go.
> 
> So out into the world it goes. Please don't hate me.

Gimli was wrenched out of sleep with a gasp that nearly choked him.  The frantic beat of his heart propelled him fully upright in his bed, and as he came aware of his surroundings, he realized there were tears on his cheeks.

But even as that awareness flooded in, his memory seemed to trickle away.  He clutched at his forehead in a vain attempt to hold it there, but it was no use: the dream remained maddeningly out of reach, vague impressions and deep disquiet all that remained alongside his wet eyes and racing heart.

He sat forward, bracing his elbows on his knees and breathing deeply to try to slow his pulse.  What had he dreamed that had so unsettled him?  Closing his eyes to better focus, he reached for the shadowy impression that remained still in his mind.  There had been – a black claw, he thought he remembered now.  And screaming.  Someone had screamed?

Nothing else was resolving itself, though, except that powerful unease, tugging at his insides and letting him know that something was deeply, terribly wrong.

His room was dark – too dark, it seemed to him suddenly, though he could see well enough.  And perhaps moving would quiet his restlessness, so he rose from bed and found a candle and flint with which to light it.

It seemed a bit better once there was light in the room – Gimli had seen too much darkness in his time.  The flame burned steadily, and the light reflected off the facets of the semi-cut emerald walls and the streaks of citrine that ran through them, lending the room a green-gold glow.  It was a sight that always calmed Gimli down when he was upset; it reminded him, even in his absence, of Legolas –

Legolas!

It was another jolt, a dagger of ice stabbing through his insides.  He could not remember the dream, but it had something to do with Legolas.

He had closed the windows and drawn the silk curtains before going to bed.  Now he threw them open, in the hopes that the fresh air would clear his head. _Legolas_.  Was something wrong with him?  Or did Gimli merely miss him, and the dream had been a manifestation of his own sorrow at being apart?  But there had been screaming – what was the screaming?

The winter’s night was clear and very cold; the wind rushed in in a gust that blew out Gimli’s candle.  But it did not sweep away the veil obscuring the memory of his dream.  What had he dreamed?  What did it mean?

With the wind did come one certainty: something was wrong.  Legolas needed him.

He would ride for Ithilien in the morning, he decided, shivering in the chill and closing the window, fumbling for a lantern that gave off more light.  No – perhaps sooner.  He yanked open the door to the closet, dressed quickly, and began pulling out clothing at random – mostly his own, though he could not say with certainty that none of it belonged to Legolas.  Ah, well.  It would do no harm, and perhaps Legolas would even find it amusing – so long as nothing was terribly wrong.

The ride to Ithilien was not long, not if he went swiftly; he would only need provisions for a few days.  Those in the kitchens would not be pleased at the late-night request, but if he woke Henni, she would forgive him soon enough.  He went for his weapons chest and tugged out his axe, affixing it to his belt, and then adding a dagger, a throwing axe –

_Thump, thump, thump._

The knock on the door was so sudden that Gimli’s axe nearly left his hand; it was only with a great effort of will that he managed to keep from hurling it at the door and causing needless destruction.  “Yes?” he shouted.  If it were someone with a problem for him – he did not have time for this now –

“Lord Gimli?” The voice was tentative, and Gimli could not place it at first.  Young, he thought – perhaps one of the new guards?  “Lord Gimli, I am sorry to disturb your slumber, but” –

“What is it?” Gimli barked, pulling the door open.  The dwarf on the other side startled, likely at the sight of him fully dressed and armored with an axe in his hand.  Gimli spared just a moment to appraise him.  One of the new guards, yes, though his name escaped him at the moment.

“There is an elf here to see you, my lord,” said the young dwarf.  “We tried to explain that you were sleeping, but” –

An elf.  “Legolas?” he asked, jamming the axe into his belt.  Perhaps he would not need to go to Ithilien after all; perhaps whatever was wrong, Legolas had come to him.

The guard shook his head.  “No, my lord.  Fair skin, gold hair.  She introduced herself as” –

“Laerwen?”  Gimli’s heart took off again.  If Legolas’s sister had come herself to fetch him, that confirmed his sense that something was wrong.

“Yes, that was it!” said the guard.  “We tried to tell her” – but Gimli was already running.

He had lost, perhaps, a bit of speed and stamina since the days of the Ring War some three decades before, but both were still formidable, and he left the guard far behind him in his haste.  He whipped around corners and sprinted through the halls; few were awake at the time to see him, but he would not have cared.  Within moments, he had made it to the entrance – and there stood Laerwen: tall, fair, and ageless as ever, but all of her hair had been braided back from her face and neck, she wore simple traveling clothes the same green and brown as Legolas’s, and she was arguing so passionately with Gimli’s other guard that Gimli wondered if she would soon draw her blade out of frustration.

“Laerwen,” he said, and her face snapped around to look at him, gray eyes wide with something Gimli could not name.

“Gimli,” she breathed.  “Thank Elbereth you are here.”

“Is it Legolas?” Gimli asked.  “Is he in trouble?”

“I believe so,” she said.  “But we must make haste.  Will you come with me to Ithilien?”

Gimli only hefted his bag in response.

Laerwen exhaled so deeply that her shoulders seemed to crumple.  “Good, good.”  She took the bag from him and turned to load it onto her horse.  “I know you can ride double, and it will be faster this way.”

Gimli could only nod before his guard – Fulla, if he remembered correctly – claimed his attention once more.  “My lord?”

Gimli muttered an oath.  “Laerwen, a moment,” he said.  “I will not delay, but I cannot leave my people without a leader.  Let me rouse my second, and then I will return.”

Her mouth tightened, but she nodded.  “Hurry.”

When he pounded on Alma’s door, it took her a few moments to open it.  Her braids were tousled with sleep, she wore a ragged wool robe, and when she saw him, she blinked.  “Gimli?” she said, raising a hand to stifle a yawn.

“Alma.”  He had not the time to wait for her to wake up fully.  “Legolas is in trouble.  I am leaving for Ithilien tonight, and you have charge of Aglarond until I have returned.”

“In trouble?”  As it happened, those words seemed to have done it; she blinked again and scrubbed a hand across her eyes.  “What has happened?”

“I cannot say right now – and I do not have time.  But you” –

“Do you need help?”

He was not surprised that she had offered. But – “You can help me best by leading here.  Ask Fundvari if you need any guidance, and I hope not to be gone too long.  I will send you a message from Ithilien when I know more.”

“Very well.”  She nodded, seeming to come more awake with every moment.  “Go, then, if you are in haste. I await your message.  And, if you get the chance, give Legolas my greetings.”

He tossed an affirmative over his shoulder and raced once more down the hall.

Laerwen was pacing beside her horse when Gimli returned to her, as discomposed as he had ever seen her.  She looked up in relief when he emerged, though, and boosted him up onto the horse without a word before mounting before him and murmuring a word of instruction.

“What is wrong?” asked Gimli, once they had finally begun to move.

“I know not, exactly,” Laerwen admitted.  “But in the last weeks, I have been plagued by increasingly troubled dreams, dreams that I could not control, and always of the sea.  I realized soon enough that they were Legolas’s dreams, for I have not felt the sea-longing myself, and few other elves have battled it as intensely as he does without succumbing.  At first it was a vague longing, as though I yearned for something I did not truly desire, easily shaken off when I rose.  But as time wore on, the dreams turned monstrous and frightening: waves transformed into wild beasts, seabirds’ cries becoming tortured screams, and I began to worry more than I already had.”  Her back was stiff and straight, her waist taut under the loose grasp of Gimli’s palms.  “I fear he is losing his battle with the sea-longing, and I hoped you would come with me to see what we can do.”

 _Seabirds’ cries becoming tortured screams_.  Gimli remembered anew the dream that had plagued him this night, and he realized – that was it: the black claw had been the talons of a gull; the screaming its voice.  He shivered, for more reason than the cold night.  “I too had troubled dreams this night,” he said.  “Not as clear as the ones you describe, perhaps because I am a mortal and do not dream as an elf.  But I had planned to make my own way to Ithilien when my guards told me you had come.”  He smiled grimly.  “You arrived just in time, and I am glad of it.  You are right that it will be faster this way.”

“We can only hope that it will be fast enough,” she said, and that was enough to make both of them fall silent.

* * *

That quiet held them as they rode – almost without stopping, Laerwen pushing the horse harder than Gimli had ever seen an elf do.  She never seemed to command or force him, but often the horse’s sides would be heaving and his mouth foaming before she would allow a rest.

The rests they took were short, as well: a few hours for the horse to graze, drink, and sleep.  It felt almost disloyal to sleep at those times when he was so concerned, but the pragmatic part of Gimli knew that it was necessary.  And he was so tired that it was easy to fall asleep – he simply curled up in the grass and napped until Laerwen prodded him awake.

He ate on horseback, Laerwen passing him food with a few words, if any.  Unless he had missed it while asleep, she did not eat or rest for the entirety of the journey.  And while she had always treated him pleasantly before, Gimli found himself becoming less comfortable with her: her rigid determination and self-control was like nothing he had ever seen before.  It was a dwarvish spirit in the unnaturally-hardy body of an elf, and he found it almost frightening.

More unsettling still was the way he felt after waking: he never remembered the dreams, but he knew he had them, because he woke panting and sweating, as though from long unconscious battle with a faceless enemy.

It was early morning – which day exactly, Gimli was no longer certain – when the familiar sweet scent drifted out to them, and when the rolling hills of Ithilien came into sight, Gimli slumped in relief.  They were close now; soon they would find out what was wrong, and they would be able to do what they could to fix it.  And he could feel it, through that strange spiritual connection that Legolas assured him was there all the time, not only in moments of distress – the knowledge that his husband was near.

The elves and the men lived in harmony with one another, but separately for all that.  To Gimli’s great relief, the elves’ domain was the first one encountered when on the way from Rohan.

Laerwen had been here only once before, to his knowledge, but as Gimli was wondering if he should give direction, he realized that he did not have to, for another elf was rushing towards them.

It was Celair, he saw as they drew nearer.  Ze waved a hand to them as ze ran, and Laerwen murmured for the horse to stop.

“Laerwen,” Celair said, between heavy breaths.  “Gimli.  I am glad you are here.”

Any faint hope that they might have been wrong died in Gimli then.  He opened his mouth to speak, but Laerwen beat him to it.

“Where is my brother?” was all she said.

“In his home.”  Celair gestured.  “I will care for your horse, if you wish to go now.  But you should know” –

Hir words were lost. Laerwen was already striding off, faster than Gimli could keep up.  And he might have asked Celair what ailed Legolas, but he found that he could not bear to be away from him any longer.

He ran after Laerwen.

Most of the elves here lived in _telain_ , the houses that wood-elves built in the trees.  Legolas’s home, though, was larger and lower (for many reasons, he insisted, but Gimli knew it was largely in deference to him): built of woven branches and clay across the space between four large trees.  It was to this house that Gimli and Laerwen ran now, Gimli slipping on frost-covered ground and batting aside twigs that tangled into his beard; Laerwen frustratingly light of foot.  But finally, _finally_ , they were there.

Gimli could hear the commotion before even entering: rustling and thumping, and Legolas’s voice: alternating between pained moans and almost-incoherent babbling in Sindarin and Silvan.  Gimli could make out the word _no_ , repeated many times, and _let go_ , and _sea,_ and something about pain –

Before him, Laerwen pushed open the door, and he followed her inside.

The scene that met his eyes was so strange that he needed a moment to resolve it.  Legolas lay in their bed, but not out of choice, it seemed, for he was writhing and flailing, back arching as if to rise, calling out as if in pain.  He was covered to his waist with a sheet, but the cloth rose and fell in waves as he tried to kick it free.  A chair stood beside the bed, but it was not in use now: Eleniel had climbed onto the bed beside him and was now struggling to pin down his thrashing limbs with her hands and body.

Legolas’s face was haunting.  His eyes were wide like those of a frightened animal, but strangely glazed over, in a way Gimli had seen them few times before.  He was sweating visibly, the sheen on his face plain to see, and his hair was a tousled mess against the pillow.  Worst of all, he was _so thin_.  The bones in his cheeks and shoulders jutted out at sharp angles, and his eyes looked even larger than they should in his face.  As Gimli watched, frozen in horror, those eyes fixed directly on him, and then skittered away with no sign of recognition.

A rock dropped into Gimli’s stomach with a sickening thud.

Eleniel looked up at their arrival, her face drawn in tiredness and fear.  “You are here,” she said, voice filled with relief. “We had thought to send a messenger to you – but you came without one.”

Those words broke the ice that seemed to have encased Gimli’s body.  Hands fluttering up, helpless to do anything but knowing only that he must do something, he stepped forward.  Legolas needed him, after all.  Surely there was something –

But he had made it barely a step before he was brushed aside like an obnoxious wasp; Laerwen moved with the purpose that Gimli had feared he lacked, sweeping past him and Eleniel alike to take up a place on the bed.  “Legolas,” she said, crooned, “oh, Legolas, my Greenleaf, my dear little brother.”  She pulled Legolas into her arms as though he were a child – and perhaps to her, he was, Gimli thought – and cradled him to her, rocking back and forth, half-murmuring, half-singing something that sounded like a lullaby.

It did seem to calm Legolas, if only a bit, and she held him more adeptly than Eleniel had, keeping his flailing limbs under control.  But Laerwen’s sense of purpose had reawoken Gimli’s, and he ached to hold Legolas as well, to touch his face and braid his hair back into order and whisper to him, to ask him what was so wrong and make empty promises to fix it.  He stepped forward until he stood beside Eleniel, reaching out for his husband.

Laerwen did not even look up.  “You may go now, Eleniel,” she said, voice switching abruptly from its coaxing warmth to the cool of command.  “And you as well, Gimli.  Perhaps Eleniel can show you somewhere you may rest from the journey.”

Gimli stared at her.  After all the pains she had taken to bring him here, he was to be simply dismissed thus?  Absolutely not.  “I will stay, thank you,” he said, trying to push down his irritation.  She was worried, of course – but so was he!  She had no more right to be here than he did!  “I would hardly leave Legolas alone in such a state.”

“I assure you,” she said, voice even colder, “he will be safe in my care.”  Legolas chose that moment to begin thrashing again, and Laerwen pressed her forehead against his, pulling him close and taking up her song again, as though the conversation were simply over.

Oh, the indignation was boiling in Gimli now.  This was certainly not as easy as that!  “That may be,” he said, “but I am his husband, and I will not be forbidden from his side” –

Laerwen looked up then, gray eyes blazing. “You are the reason he did not sail long since and thus deliver himself from this pain!” she snapped.  “What good do you think you can do now?”

Gimli _staggered_.  She had not hit him, had not even touched him, but the air rushed from his lungs as though from a blow with a metal-studded fist.  His mouth opened, and then closed again.  He tried to breathe and realized that he could not reach for air.

Eleniel’s hand fell onto his shoulder.  “Come with me, Gimli,” she said softly, and he could do nothing but allow her to guide him.

She led him out of the hut and – and somewhere; Gimli could not pay attention.  It was not even as though Laerwen had insulted him; insults he could take and return.  She had used truth as her weapon, though: a truth Gimli had known for years and years and yet – and yet through his own selfishness, he had shoved his fingers into his ears and ignored it.  Had caused Legolas pain through his own inability to let go.

And now this –

She was right.  If Legolas had sailed long ago, he would not be suffering like this.  He would be safe and happy, away in his Valinor, with peace and freedom.  He would not be here, with a mortal spouse who would die soon enough, would not be trapped in pain and suffering –

He tried to swallow and choked.

“Sit with me,” came Eleniel’s voice, as though from a great distance away, and Gimli let her press him down, with her hand still on his shoulder.  They were on a bench, he dimly realized, but the gray light of pre-dawn mingled with the gray fog around his thoughts to obscure all his sight.  His breath was snagging in his throat, and he wondered if he would weep.

“I am sorry that she said that to you,” said Eleniel, still in that gentle voice.  “It was not fair, and I think she knows it, although she is not listening to reason right now.”

“It is entirely fair.”  His voice caught coming out as well, a high-pitched whisper that he would have been ashamed of were there not worse reasons for shame.  “All that she said was true, even if I have done all I could for decades to ignore it.”

“It is not.”  Eleniel’s hand was still on his shoulder, warm and strong.  “Legolas stays because he wishes to, not because you ask him.  If he did not have such a powerful reason to remain, he would have succumbed long ago.”

“But you know him,” Gimli managed.  “You know how he sacrifices to please others; you know how unwilling he is to speak up” –

“Not about this.”  Her voice was sure and certain.  “Not about the important things – and you know that, too, when you are not too busy blaming yourself to realize it.”

“But” –

“Gimli,” she interrupted him, which was well as his voice was about to give out anyway.  “His struggle is _not your fault_.”

His breath hitched in a sob and he turned away, avoiding her eyes.  But then her hand moved over to his other shoulder, a tentative invitation, and he gave in: letting her pull him into her arms, he collapsed into tears.

He knew not how long he remained there, weeping helplessly into Eleniel’s shoulder, but it must have been some time indeed.  For when the tearing sobs finally subsided and his eyes ran dry, the sun had fully risen, casting watery-gold light over the young trees in the clearing where they sat.  He could take it in now, as he withdrew from her: the frosted ground still littered with the last remnants of dead leaves, the half-frozen stream that ran sluggishly along past the bench where they sat.

She was looking at him kindly – too kindly, and he had to turn away in a sudden wave of embarrassment.  He sniffed several times, cleared his aching throat, fumbled for a handkerchief to mop up his face – and all the while she said nothing, only waited.

“I apologize,” he croaked at last, though it seemed inadequate after what she had just witnessed.  He kept his face averted.

“You need not,” she said.  “You are tired, and worried, and you feel guilty.  All of these seem natural to me – although I promise you that you have nothing to feel guilty for.”

“I know not if I can take your word for that,” he said – but it did feel so good to be absolved, even if only by one person.  “But for now, tell me about Legolas.  What ails him?”

“It is the sea, as you and the princess have both guessed,” sighed Eleniel.  Gimli brought himself to look at her again and noted how _tired_ her face appeared, almost old – and then he remembered that of course, she was many times his own age.  “This has been going on for some months, though we did not all realize it at first.  He began eating less, and he looked always exhausted, as though he fought some constant battle.  I tried to ask him what was wrong, but he would not tell me.  And then, some weeks ago, he disappeared.”

“Disappeared?”  Worry surged in Gimli’s belly, although he had just seen Legolas in his bed and knew that he was safely here, if not _well_.

“We found him ere long, some few leagues south along the Anduin,” said Eleniel.  “He seemed confused when we found him, and all we could convince him to admit was that he had tried to go to the sea.  But he came back with us easily enough.  We kept a closer watch on him after that, and for a time he seemed normal, although he still ate and slept little.  But then he tried to leave again” –

Gimli’s stomach clenched, and he must have made some sound, because Eleniel looked at him in sad understanding.  “Again we found him and brought him back,” she said.  “And it was after that time that he stopped eating and sleeping altogether.  When he did sleep, out of exhaustion, we would hear him moaning and crying out as though from nightmares, but he would tell us nothing of them” –

“It was the dreams that brought Laerwen and me here,” Gimli said. He winced – worry for Legolas had driven the confrontation momentarily out of his mind – but forced himself to go on.  “She began having dreams of the sea twisted into terrifying beasts and torments.  And I did not dream so clearly, but I felt flashes of the same.”

“Well, I am glad the dreams were shared, even if I am sorry that they were inflicted on you,” Eleniel said.  “We planned to try to send you a message, but we would have then had to wait for the messenger to reach you, and then for you to arrive.”

“Go on,” said Gimli.  “Tell me more of Legolas’s condition – how did he come to be as I saw him?”

“He continued to try to leave,” said Eleniel.  “None of us can go to the sea with him – we know not if we will be struck by the longing as well, and we have nothing so powerful to hold us here, though we do not wish to depart.”  She placed her hand on his, a brief, glancing touch, and then removed it.  “And we feared allowing him to go himself – perhaps he would try to sail, or even swim, and would simply drown, alone and unheralded – and we would never know what had happened to him.  But he began to fight us when we would hold him back.  He is more than a match for most of us individually, but not together – and he has grown weak, too, from lack of food and rest.  So we are able to hold him back, but he does not understand why, so he struggles and fights, and” – She broke off, lowering her head to rest in her hands.

Gimli thought that perhaps he would weep again, if he had any tears left to spend.  “And?” he asked instead.

Eleniel took a few deep breaths before speaking again.  “He is not always thus,” she said.  “After a time, he will fade back into his right mind, and then he is all apologies and contrition.  He knows what happens, I think, when he descends into this strange madness, but he is unable to control it.  But it has grown worse.”  She sighed.  “I am glad you are here.  Have I said that?”

After everything, Gimli brought himself to laugh.  “You have,” he said.  “But in light of everything, it is reassuring to hear it again.”

“I shall give you as much reassurance as you need,” promised Eleniel.  “Whatever you may believe, I am grateful to you for giving Legolas a reason to stay – and the princess is as well.  She will remember it once she is back in her right mind.  And I truly believe that Legolas is not ready to sail yet.  I think that if anyone here can remind him of that, can help him feel at peace once more this side of the sea, it is you.”

“I hope so,” was all that Gimli could say.  “I hope so.”

* * *

They sat there for some time longer while Gimli composed himself and Eleniel gazed into the distance.  He wondered for a time if she was sleeping, in that strange elvish way – surely she could have gotten little rest in these last days.  But after a while, she looked over at him again.

“Shall we go back?” she asked.  “Legolas’s home is your home as well, you know, and you are within your rights to see him.”

Gimli squared his shoulders.  He knew what Laerwen could say to hurt him, now; this time he would be prepared.  “Yes,” he said firmly.  As much as he blamed himself, he also knew that Legolas would be glad to see him.  “Only” – He flushed.  “Give me a moment.”

The water in the stream was shockingly cold, but he plunged his hands in nonetheless and cupped a double handful to splash over his face.  He made a strangled noise as it hit him, but it felt good – cleaning away the remnants of tears and the exhaustion from lack of sleep.  He did it once more, just for good measure, and then dried his face with the handkerchief before storing it away once more and straightening.  “Now,” he said.  “Let us go.”

They made their way back to the little house where Legolas stayed.  Gimli’s feet crunched on the frosted leaves on the ground; Eleniel, like any elf, walked in almost irritating quiet.  But Gimli could not begrudge her anything after what she had done for him, so he cast his thoughts forward, wondering what he would see when he arrived.

When they drew near, though, Eleniel’s head tilted to the side, and then her face nearly crumpled in relief.  “If I hear correctly, his mind is clear again,” she said.  “Wait just a moment.”

She ran lightly to the door and peered inside.  Whatever words she exchanged were too soft for Gimli to hear, but as he reached the door, she leaned out once more.  “He is asking for you,” she said.  “Come in.”

Inside, Legolas lay in the bed still, but his thrashing and moaning had stopped: his face was still gaunt and thin, still covered in that sheen of sweat, but his eyes were clear, and when he saw Gimli, he managed a weak smile.

“Gimli,” he said, reaching out.  “Come here?”

Laerwen rose from the chair beside the bed without a word, though she did touch Legolas’s cheek lightly as she passed.  But when she approached him, Gimli found that he could not look at her.

She stopped beside him and took a breath as though she would speak.  At that, he looked up, and saw a strange mixture of emotions in her face that he could not parse – but he thought one of them might have been contrition.

She laid a hand gently on his shoulder, and to his own surprise, when she looked at him with those pain-filled eyes, he did not pull away.  Neither of them spoke, but when she passed him on her way out, some tightness in his chest seemed to give way.

Eleniel, too, left without a word, and then it was just Legolas and Gimli in the room together.  Gimli lost no more time in hurrying to the bed and laying a hand on Legolas’s cheek.

“Oh, my love,” he said, and his eyes burned again with tears that he thought had run dry.  “I am so sorry.”

He knew not exactly what he was apologizing for – Legolas’s pain?  For not being here sooner?  For the part that he still believed he played in the situation?  But Legolas shook his head.  “You have no reason to be sorry,” he said.  “Will you come lie with me?”

“Of course.”  Gimli pulled off his boots and his armor – it had taken him long to do so, but he trusted the elves of Ithilien now nearly as much as his own people – and climbed into the bed beside Legolas, pulling him into his arms.  Legolas was too light and too bony against him, but he was himself, and he was here still, and Gimli pressed his face against his hair and held him close.

“I am sorry that you had to travel all the way from Aglarond,” murmured Legolas.  “I am nothing but a trouble, these days.”

“You are worth all of the trouble,” Gimli said fiercely, brushing Legolas’s hair aside to kiss the side of his neck.  “Oh, Legolas.  How long has this been going on?”

“I know not,” said Legolas.  “The sea has always plagued my dreams, so for a time I thought there was nothing unusual about these – only then they turned wild and frightening, and then they began to seep into my waking life as well.  It has been nothing but a bother, as any of my people here can tell you.”

“Stop,” Gimli ordered him.  “Stop concerning yourself with how your troubles affect us.  You are worth all of the ‘bother’ and more.  It is only so upsetting to us because we care about you.”  He hesitated, but it had to be said.  “Do you think it will get better?” he asked.  “Or” – He gulped.  “Do you think you will have to sail?”

“No!” said Legolas sharply.  He writhed against Gimli’s hold, turning to face him, and even as Gimli loosened his arms, he noticed how weak Legolas’s struggles were.  “No, I will not sail!  I will not leave you!”

Gimli closed his eyes in despair.  It was true, then.  “Do not stay for me,” he said.  “I would rather” – His breath hitched.  “I would rather you be gone from me forever than see you waste away on my account.”  Oh, he was going to weep again, and he could not bear it.  “At least then I would know you were well.”

“And you think I would be well if I were away from you?” said Legolas sharply.  In contrast to Gimli’s own despair, his voice was alive with anger and determination, and Gimli heard in him the same fierce spirit that had felled a Nazgul steed from the sky, that had confessed his love first despite every barrier in his way, that had promised Gimli over and over again never to leave him.  “You think I would not waste away _just as much_ knowing I would never see you again?  No! I have told you before and I will tell you again, I will not sail while you live!”

“But it is hurting you,” was all that Gimli could say.  “I cannot be responsible for that, Legolas.  I cannot know that I am the reason for your suffering.”

He had hidden his face against Legolas’s neck, but he felt gentle fingers under his chin, lifting it.  He closed his eyes in an attempt at defense, but Legolas touched his eyelids lightly, forcing him to open them and look at him.

“Is this about Laerwen?” he asked.

Gimli looked away.

“She told me that she was unkind to you,” said Legolas, stroking Gimli’s cheek until their eyes met again.  “That she blamed you for my suffering.  But she knows that she was wrong – and she asked me to assure you that you are not the cause of this.”

“She was not wrong,” Gimli said.  “Her words hurt because of their truth, not because of their insult.”

“No!” said Legolas again, and for all the pain, it did Gimli’s heart good to see the angry light in his eyes.  “No, she was wrong, and her words were not true!  You did not cause this!  You did not stir the sea-longing in my heart; you have never asked me to stay when I wanted to go.  You are only at fault for making me love you more than I have ever loved another!  You are only at fault for being someone I never want to leave!”

“But one of us must.”  It was the same argument they had had before, but it had never seemed so real as it did now, with Legolas lying frail and half-mad in this bed, with the gray growing in thick at Gimli’s temples and lower lip.  It was Legolas who had found the first strands, some years before; Gimli reached up to finger them now.  “We must be parted.  My death is inevitable, but I would not take you along with me!”

“And you think that I could leave you before it happens?” hissed Legolas.  “You think that I could willingly give up even a _moment_ of your life, even a single step on our road together?  No.  Never.  You will not change my mind on this, Gimli.”  And at last the anger in his voice gave way; it broke into a whisper.  “Please stop trying.”

And then they were both weeping, and Gimli found, for a wonder, that he had yet more tears to shed.

After long moments, when both their faces and hair were damp with one another’s tears, Legolas’s sobs slowly subsided into feeble laughter.  “What a picture we make,” he said, pulling back enough that Gimli could see his quivering lips trying to smile.  He drew a thumb under Gimli’s eye, then kissed the spot.  “I am glad you are here.”

“I am glad I came.”  Gimli found his much-abused handkerchief once more – still damp from the stream – and wiped his eyes and nose again, while Legolas used the somewhat-less-dignified sleeve of his nightshirt.  The motion sent his hair into his face, and Gimli reached up to tangle his fingers in it.  “Your hair is a mess,” he said.  “Shall I braid it for you?”

“Always.”

They shifted around, Gimli rising from the bed to fetch a comb, and then arranged themselves with Legolas propped against a pillow and Gimli behind that.  Legolas’s weight was slight even when taking the pillow into account, but Gimli forced down his worry and focused on his hands, working the comb very gently through the tangles in Legolas’s hair until it was silk-smooth once more, soft in Gimli’s hands.  It had lost some of its luster, though, its usual shine dulled almost to nothing. 

“How long has it been since you have eaten?” he could not help asking, as he separated strands for the braids.

“Some time, I think,” said Legolas, “though in truth I have little sense of how much time has passed.  I have had no stomach for food since the dreams worsened, and I think that was some weeks ago.”

“Weeks?” Gimli forced his fingers to remain gentle, even as alarm spiked in his stomach.  Elves might have the ability to go without food for so long, but everything about Legolas showed that it was taking a toll.

“Worry not; I have eaten since then, though I do not remember exactly when.  My people did not allow me to skip every meal, and Eleniel pressed broth upon me some days past, I think.”

None of this reassured Gimli.  “Would you have more broth if I called in for some?” he asked.  “For me?”

Legolas shuddered, disrupting Gimli’s braiding; when he looked down, he saw that the skin around his lips and eyes had paled to an ashy gray color.  “Please, no,” he said.  “Even to please you, I – I cannot even think of it now.”  His lips pressed tightly together then, his face crumpling in a grimace.

Gimli frowned, but let it go for now.  “Later, then,” he said, returning to his work.  “Do you think – is there anything that would make this better?  Do your dreams give you any idea how to stop them?”

Legolas hesitated.  “You will not like it, but I think I have an answer.”

“Tell me,” Gimli urged.  “I will try to keep an open mind.”

Legolas sat up fully; Gimli let go of his hair and hurried to support him as he turned around, leaning against the pillow again but looking Gimli in the face.  “I need to go to the sea.”

He had been right that Gimli did not like that suggestion.  “Go to the sea?” he said.  “How will that make things better and not worse?  How can you imagine that that would help you recover rather than making this – this illness, for that is all I can think to call it – more severe?”

“I think the illness comes from being held back,” said Legolas, deadly serious.  “I think my dreams are telling me that I must go, and the madness comes from resisting the call.”

“All the madness comes from resisting the call,” said Gimli.  “All this would be healed if you went to the sea, no doubt, but if you are so determined that you will not sail, then how can a visit make this any less painful to you?”

“I know not,” Legolas said, “but at this point, how much worse can it truly become?”

Those words fell between them and brought a loud silence with them.  Without a word, Gimli pulled Legolas back around to take up his braiding once more.  But he thought about those words: he thought about Legolas’s haunted eyes and the terrifying lightness of his body; he thought about the horrors that had plagued Legolas’s dreams and his own.  How much worse could it become?

He was afraid to find out – but he knew also that if nothing was done, worse it would become indeed.

He finished Legolas’s braids without speaking, moved the pillow aside, and guided Legolas back down against his chest.  Only once they were nestled together once more did he speak again.  “Very well,” he said hoarsely.  “If you think you must go to the sea, then we will go to the sea.”

* * *

Laerwen and Eleniel came in again after some time had passed, both entering with apprehensive expressions which morphed quickly into relief when they took in the sight of Legolas lying peacefully against Gimli.  “Legolas,” said Eleniel, crossing the room and kneeling beside him.  “Do you know me still?”

Legolas reached out to touch her shoulder.  “I am sorry, Eleniel,” he said.  “I know I have caused you much worry.”

“Think nothing of it,” she said immediately.  “I am merely glad to see you lucid once more.”

“Gimli,” said Laerwen from the doorway where she had remained.  “If you can bring yourself to leave for a moment, I would speak to you.”

A strange rush of feeling passed through Gimli then – a sort of combination of apprehension and indignation and anticipation – but all the arrogance and command had left her voice and face.  Her expression was unreadable, but not forbidding.

“You need not leave, if you do not want to,” said Eleniel, “but he will be safe with me for a few moments.”

Gimli looked down at Legolas, and his husband squeezed his hand.  “Go,” he said softly.  “You know you wish to.  But come back soon.”

“Very well.”  With painstaking care, Gimli eased himself out from under Legolas’s body and helped nestle him back in onto the pillows, then kissed his cheek before backing away.

He put on his armor and boots again before he left.  He had had his fill of confrontations with Laerwen without them.

“Gimli,” she said, as soon as they had left the house.  “I am sorry.”

He sighed.  Some part of him still steamed in indignation at her earlier dismissal; another part still shrieked at him that she had been right to begin with.  But he remembered Legolas’s defiance, his insistence that he would not sail, and that that decision was his, and he could not give in to either of those urges.  In the end, all he said was, “Thank you.”

“Legolas was wroth with me for saying such words to you” –

“And with me for believing them,” Gimli could not help interrupting.

She nodded.  “And he was right to be.  In my worry and exhaustion, I spoke to wound.  But my words were not true, and I would not have you believe them.”

“They were true,” Gimli insisted.  “Legolas assures me that I am not to blame, and with such vehemence that I think I must believe him.  But I know that you believe what you said.  I remember, you know, that you said once that you would resent me always.”

She brought a hand up to her face, as though to run it through her hair, and seemed surprised to realize that it had all been braided back.  “I know that I said that,” she said.  “And I think perhaps I was too hasty.”  With a sudden, abrupt change in mood, Gimli remembered Treebeard, and almost laughed – and then wondered if perhaps he too were simply exhausted.  “I fear for Legolas every day.  I worry for what will happen to him after your death; I worry about the toll that the sea-longing takes on him.  But I also think that I worry less about him because you are here.  You make him happier than I have ever seen him.  And, for all that he suffers because of it, I confess that I am selfish.  I said that if it were not for you, he would have sailed long since, and that is true.  But it is his decision to stay, not yours, and – for all that, I am glad to have him still on these shores.  I am glad that he stays, and I am grateful to you for it.”

Gimli took a deep breath – as though he could finally breathe again.  His guilt was not, perhaps, gone, but that feeling of absolution, of forgiveness, from another – it made him feel better.  Less ashamed of the fact that – despite everything – he still did not want Legolas to sail.

“Thank you,” he said again, at last.  It was not enough to express the press of emotion in his chest, but it was all he could say.

“Do you remember also,” she said softly, “that I asked then if you would accept me as a sister?  Legolas tells me you have no siblings yourself, so perhaps you would not understand, but Legolas and I have sought often enough to wound one another with words worse even than those I spoke to you.  And yet he is the dearest thing to me on these shores.  I can only hope that my harsh words have not forever cost me your trust, for I should regret deeply such a loss.”

Gimli took a long breath, and shook his head.  “No,” he said, and he felt as he said it that it was the truth.  “No, they have not.”

They did not stay there for much longer; both were eager to return to Legolas, and when they entered the room again, they found him still coherent, talking quietly with Eleniel.  But when he saw Gimli, he beckoned.

Gimli lost no time in climbing back into the bed, though he felt uncomfortable stripping off his armor with both Laerwen and Eleniel watching.  But that was nothing to the relief of leaning back into the pillows of his own bed, of holding Legolas in his arms once more.  “Did you tell Eleniel what we discussed?”

“I did,” Legolas said.  “And did you tell Laerwen?”

“Tell me what?” said Laerwen, which answered the question.  Legolas looked at Gimli to answer, but Gimli shook his head.  These words, at least, would come from Legolas.

“We are going to the sea,” said Legolas.

Laerwen raised an eyebrow.  “No, he certainly did not tell me that.”

“Legolas thinks that the dreams might cease, or at least calm somewhat, if he sees the sea,” said Gimli.  “I know not whether I agree, but we must try something.  And as none of you may venture too near without risking the sea-longing yourselves, I am the only one fit to accompany him – though of course I would not let him go without me.”

“I would not want” – Legolas stopped abruptly.

Gimli looked up at Laerwen almost defiantly, waiting for her to forget her words of earlier and shout more censure at him, but she just blew out a long, resigned breath.  “You may be right,” she said.  “And – I trust you.”

“Thank you,” said Gimli, yet again.  Perhaps, then, she had spoken the truth.  “I will not disappoint.”

Eleniel cleared her throat quietly.  “I believe many of us could use our rest now, if you do not mind.”  Gimli wondered if she were including herself in that number; wondered how long she had been sitting awake with Legolas, fighting his spells of madness.  “Your highness, if you would allow me to show you to a place where you may sleep.”

Laerwen looked down at the bed once more; finally, slowly, she nodded.  “Fetch me if you need anything,” she said, bending down to place a gentle kiss on Legolas’s forehead.  “Rest well, both of you.”

“And you.”  In that moment, quite apart from their conversation earlier, Gimli felt a sudden allyship with her, after the days of riding hard and resting little, in their desperation to reach someone they both loved.  And she smiled at him with that same understanding before following Eleniel out of their home.

Gimli was left alone with Legolas – but the talk of rest had hit him as hard as the others.  Freed of that pressing urgency, at least for the moment, lying in the bed he had shared with Legolas for years, he yawned widely, and then found he could hardly open his eyes again afterwards.  “I think I too must rest for some time,” he said.  “Do you think you could sleep at all, if I stay here with you?  Do you think that you could find some refuge from the dreams?”

“Your arms have always been a refuge from the sea,” murmured Legolas.  “And there is some peace in knowing, now, that I will not have to fight the call much longer.”  His eyes were closed, Gimli noticed, the way they only were when he was truly exhausted.  “I think, at least, that I can try.”

* * *

They did not leave immediately; Gimli insisted that he would not depart until Legolas was well enough to sit a horse once more.  But he had to admit that Legolas may have been correct that this journey would help: even the knowledge that he would soon be leaving seemed to have calmed him down.  He did sleep, that first day, and then a few hours at a time afterwards; the episodes of madness seemed to have been replaced with a restless eagerness.  He even ate at Gimli’s insistence, although broth and bread were all he could stomach at first.

After waking once more, that first day, Gimli set about writing a missive to Alma.  He told her that he would be gone some weeks yet; that Legolas was unwell but hopefully recovering; that they both sent her their greetings.  He spent a few weeks in Ithilien every year – usually in the summer, as he was not built to withstand the winter’s chill in a house so open to the elements – and although this stay was unplanned, his people in Aglarond knew how to handle the settlement in his absence.

Laerwen took the message on her journey back.  Gimli would not have asked the heir to Thranduil’s throne to deliver a message for him, but Legolas had no such qualms around his sister – nor, it seemed, could she say him nay.  She departed on the same day that they did, though in the opposite direction.

They did not leave as soon as Legolas wanted, nor was Legolas as recovered as Gimli wished he were, but it was the closest compromise they could find.  Legolas bade his farewells to his friends, and promised them that he would return soon.

“If you cannot, Legolas,” Eleniel ventured, but he cut her off.

“I _will_.”  He still needed to brace a hand on Gimli’s shoulder to stand fully upright, but the certainty in his voice was such that it was impossible to doubt him.  “I am not finished here yet.  I _will_ return – you may trust in that.”

“I trust.”  It was Laerwen who responded, placing her hands on his shoulders.  “I am sorry to leave before you return, but I have duties that call me home.”

“I understand,” said Legolas.  “And I would not bring you with me to the sea, not if you are not ready to depart yourself.”

She shook her head sadly.  “Send me word when you return.”

“I will.”

She embraced him for long moments, and then turned to lay her hands on Gimli’s shoulders.  “Thank you for taking care of him,” she murmured.  “Again, I say that I trust you.  And that I can only hope I have not entirely undone your trust in me.”

Gimli shook his head.  Save for those first few moments, she had never been anything to him but an ally in their love for Legolas, a companion in desire for his well-being, and a sister, when they could both remember it.  “You have not,” he said.  “And I thank you for your trust, and promise that I will not betray it.”

“That I believe.”  She drew him in for a swift embrace of his own, and took the letter from him when she withdrew.  “I will deliver this to your second, as promised – Alma daughter of Aldis?”

“That is she.”

“Very well.”  She hugged Legolas one last time and kissed his forehead.  “Heal well, little brother.  Until our next meeting.”

And with their last farewells said, they departed.

It had been long since they had journeyed thus, just the two of them.  They rode more slowly than in days gone by: Legolas could not sit straight for more than a few hours, and even Gimli found himself more grateful than he would admit when they had to stop to rest.  Still, it was peaceful, in a way: to ride together along the river Anduin, talking of everything and nothing, eating bread and dried fruit when they stopped to rest.

It was peaceful, that was, for the first day.

Gulls came only rarely into Ithilien; those rare occurrences did not threaten Legolas’s companions, although they troubled him.  But as they drew further south, the gulls flew overhead in greater number, crying out constantly.

The first ones were so faint that Gimli could not hear them, but he knew what it was merely from the way Legolas stiffened against him and looked up.  “Gulls?” he asked.

Legolas was trembling.  He gave a small, tight nod.

“Does it help if I hold you?”

“That always helps,” Legolas said.

But it did not always help.  As they drew further on, and the cries grew ever louder and clearer, even Gimli’s arms were not enough to keep Legolas at peace.  He began to fidget on the horse’s back, threatening a few times to slip to the ground, and Gimli grabbed him in alarm.

“Legolas!” he said.  “Legolas, are you with me?”

“I. I think so?” His voice faltered, though; his hands rose to press against his face – and then, in a violent burst of movement, he threw back his head, his back arching, his arms snapping away from his face, hands curled into tight fists.  “I am _coming!_ ” he screamed into the sky.  “I am _listening_ to your call!  Why must you make even this a torment?  Why will you not leave me be?”

As Gimli blinked in shock, Legolas brought his hands up to his head again and pulled violently at his hair, as though to rip it out of his head; he brought his shoulders and knees in as though to curl up and then thrust them out violently again, in jerky motions that threatened to topple them both from the saddle.  The horse they rode – Banroch – was old and calm, but he was clearly unused to such an out-of-control rider – he startled, his gait becoming faster and uneven.

“Legolas!” Gimli pleaded, clutching Legolas around the waist.  “Legolas” – In his desperation, he spoke the Sindarin word for _stop_.  He was not accustomed to guiding horses, but he had learned a few things, and Banroch seemed willing enough to listen.  He slowed his gait to a walk, and then stopped, and Gimli wasted no time sliding to the ground.

“Legolas,” he said urgently, catching Legolas’s curled fists and helping him dismount as well. “Legolas, listen to me.  Can you hear me?”

Legolas looked up at him with wild eyes, but after a moment, he nodded.

“Legolas, you must calm down.”  Gimli knew not why he was saying Legolas’s name so often, except that he hoped it might reach through the walls separating them and call him back to sense.  “What can I do for you?”

Legolas wrapped his hands into his hair again; it seemed to calm him down.  “Keep talking,” he whispered.  “Your voice is louder than theirs.”

Gimli reached forward to pull Legolas into his chest, so that his mouth was right at one ear, and said the first thing that came into his mind.  “I have never understood what entrances you so in their voices,” he said.  “Ensnaring call?  All I hear is the raking screech of grinders on metal – and nowhere near so lovely!  At least with the grinders, we know good work is being done.  If that is the sweet song of the sea, I want no part of it.”  Legolas turned deeper into his arms, his hands unwinding from his own hair to clutch at Gimli’s cloak instead, and Gimli kept talking.  “Do you know, we even wear ear-protectors in the forges.  We wear them most of the time, if truth be told, but especially when we are using the grinders – that sound feels sometimes as though the tool is slicing right into your head.”  He brought a hand up to stroke Legolas’s hair, feeling him relax further.  “But it is worth it, for what can be created.  Such grinders helped form the shapes for the gates of Minas Tirith, after all – do you remember those gates? – and the ones at the entrance to Aglarond as well.”

“Of course I remember the gates,” murmured Legolas, his fingers twisting tighter into Gimli’s cloak.  “You were so excited about them; how could I ever forget?”

“I am sure I chattered until your ears were numb.”  Gimli traced a finger along the outside of Legolas’s ear, lingering on the tip and again at the lobe.  He was pleased to notice that it elicited the same shiver as ever.  “It is a wonder you can still stand to listen to me.”

“I love hearing you talk about the things you love.”  Legolas nestled his head against Gimli’s shoulder.  “Your voice is more comfort than the softest blankets and the sweetest wine.”

“Shall I sing you a forging song?” Gimli asked.  “It is one you have never heard before, because you have not been in the forges to see our work.  And it will not sound the same without the rhythmic swing of the hammers in time.  But it reaches down into the bones.”

“I always wish to hear you sing,” Legolas said.

So Gimli took a deep breath, feeling Legolas’s body move with it, and began.

The song was low and powerful, and there were few others that held Gimli more in the moment.  He sang it now in the hopes that it would hold Legolas to the ground here, would anchor him where he need not fear the gulls.  With only the first few notes, he could already feel Legolas relax, and after the first verse, Legolas seemed to have gathered enough strength to disentangle himself from Gimli; he gestured at the horse, indicating that they should continue.  But Gimli did not stop singing, and Legolas leaned against him as they rode.

“I should like to sing with you,” Legolas said when he had finished.  “Are there harmonies for the song?  Or would it be disrespectful of me to make my own?”

“There are existing harmonies, yes,” said Gimli.  “I will gladly teach them to you.”

They sang as they rode after that, and it seemed to have some effect – at least, Legolas’s troubles with the gulls never seemed so bad as that first day.  At least, there were no more episodes of violence, of physical-seeming struggle with a force Gimli could not see.  But their silences between songs were more silent, Legolas’s eyes often going silent and distant.  He would respond to Gimli, but only in single words, in a faraway voice.

And then they came to the sea.

Gimli had not been here before, but he had been to other shores in his younger years.  All the same, it was Legolas, of course, who knew when they were drawing near.  His head tilted back to the sky, his entire body seeming to open up as though almost in rapture.

“I can smell it,” he said.  “Salt on the wind.  And I think I can hear the crashing of waves.  Do you hear it, Gimli?”

“No,” was all Gimli said.

If Legolas had thought coming to the sea would help him recover, it seemed he had been right.  With every breath of the sea air that he took, he seemed to come more to life, as though the sea were a medicine for his suffering.  And Gimli knew, of course, that it _was_ – that if Legolas only gave in to the longing, all this pain would mean nothing.

He had promised that he would return, but Gimli promised himself in turn that if Legolas wished to sail, right now, he would do all that he could to find him a boat.  And would wait until after to truly feel the breaking of his heart.

Legolas urged Banroch into a canter, and soon enough Gimli could sense it as well: smell the salt, hear the crashing of the waves.  The gulls were more and louder than ever before, but Legolas hardly seemed to mark it.

He called Banroch to a stop when they could see the sea ahead, before the stable road dissolved fully into rocks and shifting sand.  He retained at least enough sense of himself to dismount, to urge the horse to stay, to help Gimli to the ground – and then he was running.

Gimli watched in amazement and – though he should have known better – in joy as his husband, who even this morning had still needed to lean against him on horseback, now ran as lightly as ever down the beach, jumping from one large rock to another without losing his footing, laughing with a delight Gimli had not heard from him in far too long.  But that joy changed rapidly to concern, and then to horror, as Legolas did not stop running at the water’s edge: he continued straight into the waves, to his knees, to his waist, to his chest –

“Legolas!” Gimli screamed, dashing forward himself now, surefooted on stone, but not on these shifting rocks, without the balance to run as carelessly as Legolas had.  And careless was right – he was up to his neck now, diving forward; his head vanished under the waves – was he swimming, or worse? Would he resurface? “ _Legolas_!”

The dark head reappeared, which gave Gimli one second’s worth of relief, before disappearing again.  He was swimming; he was swimming too far out – he would try to swim to Valinor; he was going to try to leave without a boat – without even saying goodbye, and Gimli could not reach him!  This would be how it ended, with Gimli failing in his promises to keep Legolas safe, losing his love to his own mind, to a call that he had never asked to hear –

He was screaming still, screaming and sobbing incoherently, but it seemed Legolas could not hear him; there were others here, a few men walking in the distance, and they were staring at him but he could not care; he was at the water’s edge, wading in without removing his boots, without even taking off his armor – but he could not swim as well as Legolas, and Legolas was too far out; he would not be able to catch him –

The head disappeared beneath the waves, and Gimli did not see it come up again.

He staggered in the water; a wave slammed against his unbalanced feet and he fell to his knees, soaked up to the waist; his armor would rust and his boots would be ruined, but it did not matter, because Legolas’s head had been underneath the water for too long, and he could not imagine how he would resurface; the ends of his beard and hair trailed into the water and he could only look out into the distance, but he saw nothing, and the gray of the sea’s horizon was the same as the blur of his own tears –

And then the head reappeared, resurfaced, and Gimli choked on his own gasp, frantically dashed tears and salt spray away from his face.  Closer, he was coming closer now, his head bobbing above and under the water without seeming control, and could he breathe? Gimli did not know, but anything could be fixed as long as Legolas kept coming closer; he rose to his feet, and now he could hear him, gasping and spluttering, flailing more than swimming, but still propelling himself forward –

Gimli waded forward until the water reached his thighs and there was no distance between them; Legolas was staggering, barely able to stand, choking on seawater and tears; his hair hung in salt-twisted ropes before his face, tangled with seaweed, and his eyes were barely open, and Gimli seized him around the waist and dragged him out of the water.

Legolas crumpled, then, on his knees on the sharp rocks at the water’s edge, coughing and retching and crying, and Gimli, weeping still himself, reached out to steady him as he doubled over and was violently ill.

Gimli held Legolas’s hair out of his face and rubbed his back, helpless to stop the way his bones seemed to rattle as his body convulsed, helpless to hold back the tears that still welled in his own throat.  But finally, Legolas coughed and spat, and then sat up and leaned his weight against Gimli.

“I see now,” he croaked, and Gimli could hear his voice grating with salt.  “I see.”  He wiped his mouth on his sopping sleeve and turned to face Gimli, who now felt his body heaving with the effort to push down his sobs.  “I am so sorry,” Legolas said, and he put his arms around Gimli’s waist.  “I am so sorry to frighten you the way I did.”

Gimli could not hold back any longer; their bodies rocked as he gasped in a great shuddering sob, and yet again they were weeping together.  Gimli was soaked only to the waist, but Legolas was wet everywhere, and water sank into Gimli’s cloak where they were pressed together, but Legolas’s skin was warm beneath it, and his heart beat steadily, and his breath sheeted over Gimli’s neck, and he had _come back_.

“I am sorry,” Legolas choked again into his shoulder.  “I am so – so – sorry.”

“You – no,” Gimli sobbed back.  “You – you came b – back to me,” and then incoherency overwhelmed him again and it was all he could do to breathe.

It took a long, long time for them to calm down.  Every time one of them would start to steady his breathing, the other would burst into hysterical sobs again, and set them both off once more.  But finally, _finally_ they managed it, leaning against one another on the shore, feeling the waves lap around their lower legs and tug at their clothing.  Their breathing slowed, the tears ran out, and finally, Legolas gave a shuddering laugh.

“What a mess we are,” he said ruefully, then, looking sideways at Gimli, “And you are shivering.  Shall we go clean ourselves up?”

There was an inn in the town where they had planned to stay, though they perhaps should have secured rooms before they both looked this frightful.  Gimli, they decided after a few moments of muted discussion, looked the least offensive, and should thus be the one who entered to ask after a room and a bath.

“You will not leave?” he asked Legolas quietly.  “I will not return here to find a horse alone and you away in the water again?”

Legolas shook his head.  “You have no reason to believe me, but I will stay,” he said.

Gimli found his hand, amidst the wet mess of his cloak, and held it.  “I believe you,” he said.  “And I will be back in a moment.”

The innkeeper looked askance at Gimli when he asked after a room for two and the stabling of one horse, and Gimli thought privately that the price was likely not always this high.  But his coin was good, and given the scant number of people they had seen today, it seemed the innkeeper could ill afford to turn him away.

“Is there a place where water for bathing might be obtained?” he asked as politely as he could despite the suspicious looks (which might have been due to his being a dwarf, or his being soaking wet and shivering, or perhaps a combination of the two).

“There is a men’s – or, a males’ bathhouse,” said the innkeeper, looking for a moment confused.  “Back in the first level, below the rooms.  Impossible to miss.”

“Thank you,” said Gimli, accepting the keys to their room and going back outside.

Despite his words, Gimli half expected to find Legolas gone when he emerged.  But no – he was there, leaning against Banroch (who seemed none too pleased about the saltwater dripping onto his coat) and murmuring to him.  But he looked over when Gimli arrived.

“We have a room?” he said.  “And he did not turn you away for your bedraggled appearance?”

“No, but I think he wished to.”  Gimli managed a smile.  “So it is well that he did not see you.  Let us stable Banroch and go to wash up.”

The innkeeper cast them further strange looks when Gimli led Legolas in with an arm around his waist, but Gimli held the room key, and they were causing no disturbance, so he let them pass.  They left their bags in their room, bringing only a change of clothing each, and went to bathe.

The bathhouse, as it happened, was small, but not too questionable.  (Though Gimli had to admit that after decades of living as Lord of Aglarond, he found himself missing the comforts of his bathing chamber at home.) Most importantly, the water was hot – which was good, as the winter’s chill was seeping into Gimli’s sodden clothing and damp hair.  He had not noticed the cold at first, in the confusion of all else, but he felt it now.

No one else was present, so Gimli stripped off his clothing without hesitation and lowered himself with relief into the hot pool.  He shivered violently as he sank below the surface, shedding cold, but the warmth sank into his bones, and he sighed.

Beside him, the water rippled as Legolas slid in as well, and Gimli reached out for him.  “Come here,” he said.  “Let me tend to you.”

“You are cold,” Legolas protested.  “You should be first” –

“You will be first,” said Gimli, with as much command as he could layer into his voice.  “You have been ill, and I am not convinced you are well yet.  After all I have had to see you suffer, allow me to see you cared for.”

Legolas sighed and bowed his head, and Gimli began to massage his back beneath the water, noting, as always lately, the loose skin and protruding bone where muscle and flesh had once provided padding.  It was a comfort to touch him, to feel him warm and pliable beneath his hands, but he could not help thinking of how close he had come to losing him.

He shuddered, another ripple of cold sneaking through his body to dissolve in the hot water, and Legolas tilted his head back, letting his salt-filled hair float just below the surface of the water, and meeting Gimli’s gaze upside-down.

“Ask,” he said.  “I know you wish to.”

Gimli remained silent for another moment, moving his fingers into Legolas’s hair and wringing the warm water through it, loosening the stiff braids and easing the strands apart.  “What happened?” he said at last, simply.  “On the shore, and in the water?”

“It – it overwhelmed me, is all that I can say.”  Legolas passed Gimli the soap and sank lower in the water to allow him better access to his hair.  “I have no better explanation.  For the moment I was filled with the kind of bliss I have felt only few times in my life – and I lost all sense of myself and my surroundings in the urge to follow it.”

“And you did,” whispered Gimli.  “You followed it nearly to your own death.  I thought” – He closed his eyes in remembered despair.  “I thought at first you would try to swim across the sea, without waiting for a boat.  And then I thought that you had given up already, and that you would simply let yourself go, right there, right then.”

“I will not lie to you, Gimli; I thought the same.”  Beneath the water, Legolas’s groping hand found Gimli’s knee.  “I was not in my right mind, and exactly that was what I wished to do.”

“But you did not.”

“But I did not.”  Legolas ducked his head beneath the surface, and Gimli watched the soap swirl out around him – knowing, this time, that he could pull him up if he needed to.  Still, the surge of relief he felt when Legolas broke the surface once more belied his self-reassurances.  “I swam out, lost in the call that held me with a vise around my heart, hearing only the roar of the waves and the cry of the gulls, and when I realized that I would not be able to swim so far, the despair that forced me beneath the surface screamed just as loudly – and yet I could not give in to it.”

“Why could you not give in?” Gimli asked.  With some reluctance, he finally removed his hands from Legolas’s body and turned around to allow himself to be tended in turn.

“Because there was another call that was stronger,” said Legolas.  “Your voice.  I know not if you truly cried my name, or if I only heard it in my heart” –

“I did.”  Gimli’s mouth was dry; he ran his tongue over his lips in the hope of wetting them.

“But it matters not if I heard it in fact or in mind.”  Legolas’s hands were on Gimli’s shoulders now, returning the massage, and despite himself, Gimli sighed and tipped his head back as Legolas’s thumbs kneaded at his muscles.  “I heard it, and it was enough to call me back.  You called me back.  Your call is louder than the sea’s in my heart.  Even in sight of the sea, you are enough to keep me from sailing.”

“But what good does that do, when your response to the sea is so violent and so painful?” Gimli asked.  He leaned back as Legolas had, allowing his hair to soak in the water.  “You hoped that this journey would make things better – but I cannot see how it has.”

“It has.”  Legolas’s fingers swirled soap into Gimli’s hair, drawing yet more tension away; against his will, he felt himself relaxing.  “I think what was driving me mad was the _wondering_ – I had never seen the sea, and so it threatened me more and more, a mysterious entity whose full power I had no way of knowing.  Duck.”  The last word was such a break from the seriousness of the conversation that Gimli blinked for a moment, not understanding – and then he closed his eyes and lowered his head beneath the surface, blowing a stream of bubbles into the water around him and letting Legolas wring the soap from his hair.

When he surfaced, Legolas pushed the hair back from his face and turned to his beard, but he seemed to have drifted away from the conversation.  “You were speaking of the wondering,” Gimli prompted.

“Yes.”  Legolas’s eyes were steady on his as his fingers worked through Gimli’s beard.  “I did not know what the sea’s full power would be, and so it frightened me, because in truth I knew not if I could stand against it.  But now I know.”

Speaking was difficult, with Legolas’s soapy fingers so close to his mouth, but Gimli managed one word.  “And?”

“Rinse,” Legolas said, and as Gimli lowered his chin into the water, he continued.  “I know that the call to you, the call to Middle-earth, is yet strong enough to hold me here.  This will not be the end of it, I am sure – the spell is still strong.  But you are stronger.”

 _Stronger_.  After all the pain of the last days, all the panic and horror of their time at the shore, that word was as much a balm to Gimli’s soul as the hot water to his aching muscles.  “Truly?” he said.

“Truly.”  Legolas had taken up the soap again and returned his ministrations to the rest of Gimli’s body.  “You have been through so many trials as a result of loving me, Gimli, and I promise you that I am so grateful that you are still by my side.  I know I am not easy to love, and for that I apologize.”

“No,” said Gimli, hoarse in the sudden exhaustion of his relief, the gentleness of Legolas’s hands.  “No, everything else is hard, but loving you is the easiest thing I have ever done in my life.”

* * *

The next day, they went back to the sea.  Not so near as the water’s edge this time, but they rode to the end of the path where the beach began and stood for a long time looking out.

Gimli looked up at Legolas’s face; it was distant and smooth, but filled with such heartbreaking longing that Gimli fumbled for his hand and squeezed it hard.

Legolas looked back at him, and through all the pain, he managed a faint smile.  “As I said – strong,” he said, gesturing out at the gray waves breaking against the rocks, the far expanse of the sea to a horizon Gimli could not see.  But then he reached back and placed his hand on Gimli’s chest, just over his heart.  “Stronger.”

And finally, after another long moment of solemn quiet, they mounted once more and set off on the journey back to Ithilien.

Legolas did not look back once.


End file.
